


something wretched about this

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Related, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey changed through the years, and the years changed them too.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>Time didn’t stop just because he was happy or because he just experienced the pinnacle moment of his listless life in the background or because Mickey kissed him on the lips, or even for some magical, undreamt-of combination of the three. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Mickey was a wild dog and Ian didn’t know how to stop it, how to turn him back into the loose, easy boy he used to be. Magic kisses didn’t break these kinds of spells—it made them.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	something wretched about this

**Author's Note:**

> one last shameless fic, that's been on hold for a whole YEAR!
> 
> title from [from eden, by hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cI0wUoCLnLk)
> 
> i hope you enjoy xo

          Ian’s phone went off in his pocket, and he pulled it out to face Mickey’s usual brand of cryptic shorthand:  _Pkwy btwn black gate and river, 2 hrs._  Worse, maybe, was that he knew exactly what Mickey was talking about, or that his stomach flipped with a vengeance until he pulled on loose jeans instead of sweatpants and headed out with an easy goodbye to his family when the time came to meet him. The air was warm and stifling and heavy with possibility, and Ian thought, _I can do anything_  when he should have thought,  _This is what kills me_.

          More dangerous than that, maybe, was the thought: _Mickey Milkovich is beautiful_.

          Mickey _was_ beautiful, and not just because of his soft skin and sharp, cerulean eyes. Not because he was keen but rough, observing everything but pretending not to, always fighting what he couldn’t condone. Not because he laughed all twisted, something deep and aching beneath it, an indication that he didn’t do this enough, _couldn’t_ do this enough to make up for the days he had missed, when he was too weighed down and aching to feel anything close to exhilaration and hysteria. (Ian wanted, oh yes, Ian wanted to make him feel like that all the time.) Not because he was wild and strange and unknowable. Not because Ian couldn’t have him.

          Mickey wasn’t always beautiful. Not when he was home, not when he was scared, not when he was lashing out. But this, now—his wolfish teeth flashing in the moonlight, his throat working around his third beer, his fingers twisting through Ian’s belt loops to pull at him harshly—this Mickey was astonishing.

          _Are you mine yet?_ Ian wanted to ask, but he was afraid. He was afraid and he already knew the answer and he didn’t know what he was more afraid of, the unspoken knowledge or the idea that Mickey might confirm it without a second thought.

          Ian pulled away from Mickey’s grasping hands, a wry smile on his face when he turned it towards the flickering light from the gas station sign across the street. When Ian rolled his head back towards him, Mickey was grinning savagely, and he pushed Ian back against the alley wall and slipped his hand down low, squeezing at Ian’s jeans.

          “Thought you wanted more beer,” Ian drawled, sounding bored to his own ears and hoping he sounded the same way to Mickey’s. He pressed up into Mickey’s hand. _Don’t stop_.

          “After, Gallagher. After,” Mickey promised.

          He shoved Ian’s hand off his shoulder and deftly unzipped his jeans, plunging his hand inside.

          “Not drunk enough to get blown in an alley yet,” Ian grunted. He twisted a hand in Mickey’s hair hard, and Mickey breathed out a laugh as he dropped to his knees.

          “You ain’t doing any of the work,” he pointed out, hand still working. “We can make a beer run after, so you have time to get it up again before we head back towards town.”

          “You gonna wait to get yours til I can fuck you for real?” Ian asked wryly.

          Mickey’s smile was more feral than ever when he looked up at him, knees spread wide on the blacktop, eyebrows arched cockily. “I like it best when it’s best,” he said simply, and then he ended the conversation.

          After, Mickey sat back and wiped his hand over his mouth, and Ian pushed away from him without waiting. He redid his pants and set off towards the lights flickering dimly at the other end of the alley, glinting low off the pavement.

          He heard Mickey getting up behind him and slowed minutely, giving Mickey time to catch up. They fell into step together as they set off across the road, checking both ways for cars or pedestrians before entering the light, but the street was deserted. Ian hustled across the double lane, but Mickey ambled like always, passing just short of a car that barreled, heedless, down the interstate. A deep, long horn bellowed in its wake, screaming the driver’s displeasure with Mickey’s cavalier indifference until the car was far, far out of sight. Ian gave him an unhappy look where he waited by the big sign posting up gas prices. Mickey smirked back.

          “I thought we were getting beer,” Mickey said, knocking his shoulder when he pressed past him. He had to go out of his way to do it, and the gesture was hard, deliberately making him stumble.

          Instead of reacting like he knew Mickey wanted, Ian just snorted and followed him across the station towards the store. “Thought we were gonna fuck after. Didn’t think you meant after you were smeared across the fucking road.”

          He wasn’t mad, though, and not just because he had no right to be. Mickey was a force unto himself. He was as wild, as intimidating, and as momentous as a gale wind. He was going to go out as grandly as he lived, as he walked—not as roadkill off the interstate, on an unassuming summer night.

          Mickey was still smiling when he threw Ian a self-satisfied look over his shoulder. “C’mon, Ma, don’t lecture me. I’m going out in an overdose long before I get _hit by a car_.”

          Ian stepped ahead in long strides to get the door into the twenty-four hour store, holding it open for Mickey to pass.

          “You’re too smart to overdose,” he pointed out. Mickey didn’t answer or look at him, but his cheeks glowed faintly rose in the streetlamps and station lighting. Ian stole his glances hungrily.

          They wandered down the aisles, their gait aimless though their destination was not. Mickey always walked this way, like he had nowhere to go and no one to see and nothing to do, and like he liked it that way. He held himself like he was too important for anything.

          He was not, however—as Ian noted with satisfaction—too important to buy beer and suck off his maybe-fuckbuddy maybe-friend maybe-more in an alleyway just because.

          Ian matched his pace and followed him to the freezer section.

          Mickey grabbed two six packs and Ian took one, and they headed up to the register together. Patting their pockets down, they produced enough money to barely scrape the cost of one, left the other two at the counter, and headed back out to the street.

          He set the pack down on the street and they sat on the curb together. Mickey eyed their single pack with disdain, but Ian ignored his discontentment, because the night was warm and the sky, with a full moon hanging heavy, was filled brightly with stars. Every inch of it hummed of summer. Ian cracked open two beers and passed one to Mickey, feeling loose and king-sized. He felt the way Mickey always appeared to be, at least when there were others around.

          “We should’ve stolen the last two packs,” Mickey muttered beside him.

          Ian shook his head. “We won’t even finish this one, Mick.”

          Mickey looked disdainfully at him, but Ian didn’t think he meant it. He took a long drink from his can, gave a longer burp, and said, “Never hurts to have more beer, man.”

          Ian snorted and said nothing. He leaned his hands back behind him and tilted his face up towards the sky, his eyes falling shut. The night air was silent around them, but something in the silence seemed to buzz, to thrum with possibility.

          Beside him, Ian could hear Mickey’s throat work dully to swallow the beer he guzzled before setting the partially-empty can down between them. Without opening his eyes, Ian closed his hand around it and brought the can to his lips, drinking deeply. He was aware of the faint wetness of the lip of it, how Mickey’s mouth had been where his now was, just moments earlier. If he could collapse time across those few crucial seconds, he and Mickey would be practically kissing.

          He shook head against the ludicrous thought. He chucked the can away from him, into the darkness of the road. Mickey made a low noise of derision from beside him.

          “That the best you got?” he chided, sounding arrogant and teasing in a way Ian wanted so, so desperately to classify as _affectionate_. But words like that weren’t meant for what they had—it wasn’t meant for people like him.

          “Oh yeah?” he sneered back. A challenge. “Fine. Next one’s all you.”

          They quickly knocked back another beer together, eager to play the game, and Mickey’s shoulder jostled constantly against his as they passed the can back and forth, back and forth. Finally Ian finished off the second beer with a low _ah_ and a smack of his lips, and he passed the empty can back to Mickey. He didn’t turn his head to look at him, but his stomach still flipped when their fingers brushed, all electricity and fire.

          “I just crossed the yellow line,” Ian said, jerking his chin towards the road where his thrown beer can had long since rolled away into the darkness.

          “Which one?”

          “Second one,” he clarified, with a roll of his eyes. “Jesus, Mick, I’m not an amateur.”

          Mickey scoffed softly and looked out across the road. Ian allowed himself a few seconds to watch the side of his face: how his jaw tightened and his forehead wrinkled in his concentration; how he sucked the edge of his lip into his mouth, considering power and judging distance and trying desperately to win their ridiculous game; how the cut of his cheeks and nose and eyes glinted more sharply than his soft lines usually could manage under the bright orange strangeness of the streetlamps, turning everything into a pale, discolored, alien world. Ian wondered if here, in this bubble of a universe, more things than just the angles of Mickey’s beautiful face could be different.

          Ian freed a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and raised it to his lips. He reclined backwards on his hands, the picture of indolence and indifference, everything that Ian Gallagher wasn’t—everything that, when it came to Mickey, he sometimes wished he could be if it meant he could lessen that dull, ever-present ache in his chest that was never truly offset by the slow-seeping hope and joy of something deeper, more dangerous, that always filled him to the brim with this beautiful and crooked boy by his side.

          “Any time soon?” Ian offered.

          Mickey rolled his cheek to his shoulder to cast him an exasperated and irritated look, leisurely and drawling without even opening his mouth. Ian held up his hands in a surrender, fighting the smirk around the edges of his lips.

          With a shake of his head, Mickey raised his arm back and sent the can flying across the road. It hit the trees across the street with a dull, soft clatter, and the smirk Mickey turned on him then was victorious and flirtatious.

          “No fair,” Ian murmured, “I wasn’t even trying.”

          “Alright, Gallagher,” Mickey said, tipping his chin in Ian’s direction. He paused to crack open another can and took a few generous gulps before handing it over to Ian. “One retry. Winner takes all.”

          Ian cast him a glance. “Winner takes all what?”

          “Fuck, I don’t know,” he sighed, and Ian let out a low chuckle. “How about—loser rolls the next joint?”

          The bet was dumb but the game was playful, so Ian agreed and tipped his head back to swallow the remainder of the beer. He finished it off quickly, fighting the heat rising in his gut and his cheeks with the knowledge of Mickey’s eyes heavy and piercing on his profile.

          When the can was empty, Ian scrubbed a hand over the back of his mouth to get stray drops off his chin. He shot Mickey a confident glance and, in one fluid motion, crushed the can against the pavement and then chucked it as hard as he could across the road. Mickey was shouting his protest before it had cleared the far lane.

          “You fuckin’ cheat!”

          He shoved Ian in the shoulder, and Ian fell, laughing, to the side. His hand scraped against the pavement when he put it down for balance, but he felt rubbed raw in more places than his palm when he looked up into Mickey’s bright-eyed expression, the adrenaline clear in his pink cheeks and his rigid spine and his disbelieving grin.

          “How did I cheat?” Ian laughed, aiming to shove Mickey back but only catching him futilely and barely in the chest when Mickey twisted away from him.

          He knew Mickey’s bright cheeks were probably more from all the beer he had drunk than from Ian’s presence, but at the same time he couldn’t help hoping that Mickey felt this too and was right there with him, high and thriving because the other was brushing their side. He looked at his open, laughing face and felt like he could do anything at all.

          “You crushed the can, man! Of course it’s gonna go farther!”

          “Hey, you should’ve outlined the rules better. Not my fault,” Ian said, putting his hands up innocently. Then he jerked his chin in the direction of Mickey’s pockets and said, “Time to roll up.”

          Mickey rolled his eyes but dug around anyway for the little baggie of weed and rolling papers he had stuffed away in his pocket. Ian forced himself to look away from Mickey’s measured movements and instead tipped his head back to gaze at the sky. Still, he couldn’t help himself from being acutely aware of Mickey beside him, as he carefully rolled a joint against his propped up knee.

          Ian tilted his head to the side when Mickey got to his feet a few minutes later, watching him idly. Mickey jerked his head impatiently, the finished joint stuck between his lips, and Ian grabbed the rest of their six pack and stood up beside him.

          “Well?” Mickey said impatiently around the joint. “Gimme a light, man.”

          Ian cupped the flame around the end of the joint and waited until it caught. He could just barely hear Mickey breathe in sharply around it, and he lowered his hands slow, aware of how close he was to Mickey’s face—how close he was to his lips. Ian flicked his gaze to Mickey’s mouth as he shoved the lighter back in his pocket. For half a second, he considered asking him to shotgun before he got his head back in order.

          Instead he started walking. He heard Mickey start walking behind him and didn’t turn around, especially when the stream of smoke that blew by him indicated that he was close. He did slow down a bit to match to Mickey’s shorter strides, and when he held his hand out blindly to the side, he felt the joint slide smoothly between his fingers. He was unsure where they walking, what they were doing, and Ian didn’t look at him still—he was equally afraid that he would be too enraptured and too sick to look away. As far as he was concerned, summer had burrowed its way into his bones through Mickey, and it was never getting out.

          _Ian Gallagher_ , he thought with a slight shake of his head, _you’re a dead man._

 

*

 

          Not long after, Mickey said, “Done, done, _done_ ,” and Ian thought, _shit, I really am_.

 

*

 

          Things were better once Mickey got out of juvie the second time around. He was looser, Ian thought, although that might have stemmed from the fact that Frank hadn’t run his mouth and Mickey hadn’t ended up dead during his unexpected stint on the inside. Maybe he was finally feeling that small sense of _invincible_ that never left Ian’s skin when they were together; he desperately wanted to hope.

          Ian asked him out more easily than he had before—they were more than coworkers, more than fuckbuddies. If Ian hadn’t been afraid of losing his teeth, he might have called them _friends_. If he hadn’t been afraid of breaking his heart, he might have called them _boyfriends_. Gone were the days of cryptic text messages and illicit meeting places. Mickey drank stolen beer with him in the park and cast him flirty smiles between the Kash N Grab aisles and let Ian fuck him face-to-face more than half the time nowadays.

          Even in retrospect, Ian more than forgave himself for misreading just how far Mickey was willing to blur their carefully drawn lines. More than that, he was pretty frustrated that not only had Mickey drawn the lines and then smudged them out with his own hands, but he then had had the audacity to blame Ian for not knowing where his limits were anymore.

          Ian watched across the store counter while Mickey drank deeply from his can of coke, hungrily tracing his eyes over Mickey’s working throat while he swallowed. He picked idly at the donut he had taken from the display with long fingers, tearing it apart more than he was eating it by now. It was hot, his t-shirt sticking to his skin, and he could see the sweat gathered along the back of Mickey’s neck, right above the collar of the black security jacket that he hadn’t rolled up or taken off.

          He pushed down the urge to just grab his hips and put his mouth on his neck in the middle of the store and instead aimed for offhand when he said, “Wanna take a freezer break? It’s _so_ hot in here.”

          Still, he couldn’t keep the smirk off his face, even when Mickey turned around to raise an extremely unimpressed eyebrow at him. Then he dropped the indolence, snorting instead and rolling his eyes.

          “Sure,” he said, throwing down the magazine he’d been perusing with his other hand. “Haven’t had a customer in two fuckin’ hours. Throw up the Closed sign, I’ll grab the slick.”

          He wandered away towards the back, and Ian let the pleased, warm feeling that flooded into his stomach whenever he thought that at least he, and mostly he alone, was allowed Mickey in _this_ way fill him completely, heady and hot and disarming—even as he flipped the sign and followed him into the freezer.

          Mickey turned when Ian closed the door, already backed up against one of the shelving units and grinning one of his favorite wicked grins. He propped his elbows up on the shelf behind him, lounging casually with his legs spread wider than was natural. Ian arched an eyebrow as he drew close, and when he settled his hands over Mickey’s hips he yanked them up against his, internally thrilling at the filthy laugh Mickey let out when Ian lowered his head and bit down on his collarbone—not enough to mark, never enough to mark, but just enough so Mickey could feel it.

          Mickey tipped his head back, and Ian took that as the permission he needed to drag his lips up and bite first at his ear, then at the hinge of his jaw.

          That, not entirely unpredictably, was the tipping point. Mickey grunted out, “Alright, alright,” and shoved Ian back, although he only moved an inch or so. He let Mickey twist under his hands, shifting around until he was facing the shelves. He pressed towards Ian, fitting his back against his chest. Ian reclaimed his bruising grip on Mickey’s waist and tugged him harder against him as he rolled his hips against his ass, breath harsh and ragged against his neck.

          “Feel fuckin’ good,” Ian groaned, burying his nose in Mickey’s hair. He rocked his hips again, feeling Mickey do the same, and they dragged so perfectly together. “Fuck, Mick.”

          Mickey grunted what he assumed was assent, because when Ian looked up over his shoulder, he could see Mickey’s white knuckles wrapped around the poles holding up the shelf. Ian flicked his eyes over them briefly, knowing that he probably couldn’t get away with the same thing he had last year, before Kash shot him, two trips to juvie ago. Regardless, the longing ache to have history repeat itself didn’t go away.

          Rather than wallow in it when Mickey was willing and ready, however, rolling his ass back hard against Ian and making Ian’s favorite breathy noises (making Ian’s favorite noises, period), Ian pressed his face into Mickey’s neck instead and dragged his teeth over the point of his pulse, at the same time that he dropped his hands down to squeeze and knead at Mickey’s ass over his jeans.

          Mickey tilted his head back, baring more of his throat for Ian’s teeth, and Ian took advantage of the unblemished canvas as well as he could when he wasn’t allowed to mark that either. He dragged Mickey’s earlobe between his teeth, suckling lightly and basking fully in the groan that followed, at the way Mickey’s hands reached back and grasped at his thighs, his grip tight and painful.

          Ian spun him around by his hips and slammed him back against the shelves, and they took a moment to shove their jeans down to their knees. Bare now, Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s neck when Ian drew their hips together, and Ian let out a shuddering breath where his mouth met Mickey’s neck again when they pressed together. Mickey rutted deliberately against him, and Ian, resisting the urge to latch onto the skin beneath his lips, busied himself instead with pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there as his hands grasped to find the lube Mickey had set on the shelf beside their heads. Mickey’s grip around his neck tightened infinitesimally, and the bottom of his jacket sleeves scraped against the knob of Ian’s spine, not yet uncomfortable but definitely chafing.

          Ian popped the cap and slicked up his fingers, and Mickey relaxed a little, putting some distance between them when Ian lowered his hand to probe at his ass.

          The prep was fast, as it always had to be, and Ian pulled his fingers out after just a few minutes to slick himself up instead. Before Mickey could turn around again, Ian crouched enough to get a grip on his thighs and hefted him up, throwing him hard against the shelves to keep him balanced. The unit rocked slightly, and Ian’s heart stuttered at the look Mickey shot him, but after a second the shelves steadied and Mickey locked his knees more securely against Ian’s waist.

          “You gonna get on with it?” Mickey grumbled.

          Ian realized he had been watching him, entranced and stupid, and instead of answering—opening his mouth only tended to make things worse—he pressed closer and, maneuvering carefully to keep either of them from slipping, pushed steadily inside him.

          Mickey grunted in something that Ian chose to take as appreciation when he rocks his hips minutely, pressing more deeply inside of him, and Mickey wrapped his arms around his shoulders, fingers digging in hard near the base of his neck.

          “ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey breathed, echoing Ian’s thoughts exactly as Ian started thrusting steadily up into him. The angle was strange, his arms already tired after barely a minute, but Mickey was pressed along his chest, and his face was so close, and Ian couldn’t complain no matter how much his muscles screamed at his mouth to try.

          Mickey’s head dropped back and Ian hungrily traced the lines of the arching throat, eyes greedy on the tendons standing out every time he gulped for air. Ian drove into him harder, craving that dip in Mickey’s Adam’s apple when he tried to remember how to breathe, only moaning himself when the sound fell so beautifully from Mickey’s lips first.

          “Fuck, Ian,” he groaned again, but shakier this time, and Ian slowed in order to give him space to organize his thoughts. “My fuckin’…back is killing me… _Move_.”

          He made a pained sound, and Ian wasn’t sure if it was from the way the shelf dug into his back, the spot irritated by Ian consistently jarring his body; or if it was because at his complaint, Ian’s thrusts slowed and halted as his words caught up with him.

          Mickey opened his eyes, already set in a glare before he had even focused completely on Ian’s face.

          “I didn’t say _stop_ ,” he snapped.

          A breathless laugh escaped him, and instead of taking time to maneuver them into a more comfortable position, Ian tightened his grip on Mickey’s thighs and held them more tightly against his body. He hefted Mickey up, closer to him and higher on his hips, and deftly spun them around. Mickey’s back and Ian’s hand slammed into the freezer door at the same time, and Ian was already moving his hips at a brutal pace almost before they were settled again, drawing out a long, contented moan from Mickey that had Ian flushing hot all down his body.

          “God, _yeah_ , Mick,” Ian hissed, his teeth gritted against his own desire, this overwhelming _need_ to have more of him, as much of him as he could wrangle. Mickey breathed out, soundless and hot against his neck, and Ian shifted him against his body again to drive more easily and steadily into him.

          Mickey knocked his head back against the steel door, and Ian could feel his hand, tightening and loosening, clenching and releasing, scrabbling endlessly against the back of his neck. He was sure he’d have a myriad of sporadic crescents marked into his skin by Mickey’s nails, but in that moment he didn’t care; he leaned his head closer, forehead almost touching Mickey’s collarbone, and sought to drive Mickey to make more and more half moon imprints on the back of his neck. No matter that they wouldn’t last long; Ian wanted any sign of Mickey pressed into his skin in any way and for as long as he could retain them.

          Mickey was a mess of nonsense words mumbled under his breath, but no matter how Ian tilted his ear he couldn’t discern them. Still, he craved them, sought them out, drilled harder and harder and faster and more forcefully until Mickey was just gasping by his temple, until his litany of _“Gallagher_ ,” had turned into a steady repletion of “ _Ian, Ian, Ian_.”

          Ian was nearly satisfied; he could feel Mickey’s legs tensing where his knees bracketed his hips, and his own were sore and unhappy from holding their weight and from him grinding up into Mickey again and again, trying to make it good, trying to make it the best he’d ever had just like always. His arms were sore but his hands were numb, and Ian thought it was the thrill of being wrapped around Mickey’s thighs that made them so devoid of feeling, struck too repeatedly with lightning to feel the ache. He clenched them harder, and at the same time tried angling for that spot instead Mickey that would make him break.

          Sure enough, a second later his head tipped down, and Ian raised his eyes to meet him. Before he could formulate so much as a single thought in warning or objection, his eyes flicked from Mickey’s eyes to his mouth and back—just in time to catch him doing the exact same thing.

          Ian’s breath caught; his hips stilled for just a split second. In that moment, Mickey’s mouth came crashing down on his.

          The first thing Ian did was groan, loud and obvious even muffled by Mickey’s lips. He opened for him, eager to take what he could while he could, something deep and dark within him warning him even while it was happening that it could never last. Fortunately, wherever Mickey’s head was at—and Ian imagined it was spinning wildly out of control, and he hated waiting for that crash—he seemed to follow the same train of thought, and their lips were moving and sucking and teasing against each other’s.

          Ian made another muffled noise against him, and then Mickey pressed towards him harder, robbing him entirely of breath. He shuddered against him, and Ian paused in the desperate driving of his hips to thrust fully inside him, grinding slow and purposeful against his prostate while Mickey jerked and moaned his way through an orgasm.

          Ian’s own climax came fast after, when Mickey had leaned back fully against the door and was, for all intents and purposes, providing no help at all. Both undeterred and unbothered, Ian kept up the steady rhythm driving up and up into him until he, too, stuttered and came, his own groan muffled by the material of Mickey’s t-shirt.

          For a second after he was done climaxing, Ian almost didn’t want to lift his head. He was positive, then, in that moment with his pants around his ankles and his face buried in Mickey Milkovich’s t-shirt, that whatever came next would only give life to that dark, ugly pit of fear in his stomach. Whatever came next would be as ugly as the present was picturesque.

          Still, time didn’t stop just because he was happy or because he just experienced the pinnacle moment of his listless life in the background or because Mickey kissed him on the lips, or even for some magical, undreamt-of combination of the three. So, with his heart sinking straight through to his cheap falling-apart sneakers, Ian lifted his face up—and where the mere thought of finding stormclouds in Mickey’s expression had made him nauseous, worse still was the closed, empty expression there instead. Devoid of anything. Like nothing had even happened.

          Ian slowly lowered him to the ground. Mickey wasn’t looking at him, apparently too busy adjusting his security jacket back over his shoulders, and after a minute Ian looked away too, busying himself with pulling up and rebuttoning his jeans. When he glanced up again, Mickey was already spinning around and pushing open the freezer door, and then he was gone.

 

*

 

          “Don’t you _ever_ kiss me again,” Mickey warned him later, and Ian didn’t bother correcting him.

          Then awhile later Mickey kissed him in the van, and it was real, and it was good, and then it was ruined.

 

*

 

          Mickey was different, after.

          They didn’t talk about that night. Ian had been demoted back down to “Gallagher” most days and Mickey didn’t ever kiss him, was more than careful not to. Ian endured it because it meant that Ian was there with him and that he was momentarily _safe_ , for a snatched and stilted second, more than he ever was nowadays, showing up with new bruises every other day—some more visible than others.

          Ian met him on the roof one day, where he had first found him shooting, that afternoon when Mickey had ignored him completely. Mickey was silent as Ian stripped him of the necessities and Ian bit down hard on his own lip when he thought how Mickey rarely let him fully unclothe him anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen more than his legs and the cut of his hips, couldn’t remember when he had last seen the soft part of his stomach or felt the ridges of his ribs or touched the sensitive parts of his chest, when he had last been allowed to put his mouth anywhere near Mickey’s neck or nipples or lips, didn’t know when he and Mickey had last really _been_ together. Ian wanted the entirety of him, all of his black and red and purple artwork, and he wasn’t sure if this new Mickey was an already-filled canvas or a different painting entirely.

          Today Mickey didn’t immediately roll over when Ian had thrown their jeans aside, and Ian took that to mean that he would be fine to lay on his back on Ian’s t-shirt. Ian allowed himself to mouth for a few, precious seconds at Mickey’s collarbone, for his fingers to creep up under his shirt and trace reverently down his sides, and he was about to stop by himself when Mickey flinched and pulled away.

          “Do it,” Mickey muttered, his eyes cutting away and his hands pushing at Ian’s wrists. “Just…do it.”

          Ian, for all he hoped this was giving Mickey some semblance of help, of feeling better even for a moment, for an hour—he couldn’t do it. That curious, reckless part of him—that part that always, always destroyed him—was creeping in, and Ian couldn’t help but run the pads of his fingers back over the spot they had just mapped, searching for that little bump he could feel on Mickey’s skin. Before Mickey could protest, Ian shoved his tank top up around his armpits and peered down at his torso.

          “Jesus Christ.” Ian reared back, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking, albeit with a pinched expression that he couldn’t wipe away no matter how disgusted Mickey looked with him. “Mickey…Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

          “Shut up.”

          Ian trailed his fingers from one bruise to another, drawing a strange, nonsensical pattern across his stomach and sides in the outline already laid out by mottled bruises and scrapes. His skin— _Ian’s_ skin, Ian’s Mickey—was marked up all black and blue, a far cry from the usual pale shades of him. Mickey might have always been scratched or bruised or bloody in some way on some part of him, but _nothing_ like this. Ian had always thought that he could recognize Mickey by a cough or strand of hair or swatch of skin—had prided himself on his attention, on his devotion, on everything that even he didn’t want to name—but he was no longer sure to whom this body belonged.

          “Mick…”

          “Shut up!” Mickey snapped again, louder now and much more forceful.       He made to roll over, a move Ian was all too familiar with nowadays, but Ian grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

          Carefully, keeping eye contact the entire time as though taming a wild animal, Ian flattened Mickey onto his back again with just one hand, making sure not to smother or cage him. Always making sure Mickey could pull away if he wanted to. Ian wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what might be appropriate—“it’s okay” or “you’re safe”?—and he did know that whatever he was feeling, Mickey didn’t want to hear about it. Thus instead of saying anything, Ian made sure their shared gazes never broke as he licked a long stripe up his palm and reached down to wrap a firm hand around Mickey’s cock, and he was rewarded by Mickey propping his knees up to cradle his hips with them. It wasn’t quite the full effect of Mickey wrapping his legs around him that Ian had had a few tastes of, _before_ —but it was still gratifying, so much so that Ian felt a sharp rush of self-loathing wash over him at the thought. _This_ was enough to please him—what was Ian settling for?

          Mickey loosened the longer Ian stroked him, relaxing further and further back against the floor of the roof. He had just begun making those sighs Ian so loved when Ian pulled away to fetch the tube of lube that he had stuffed into his back pocket as soon as he’d gotten Mickey’s text.

          He could feel Mickey’s eyes on him when he squeezed some out onto his fingers, and he looked back down at him when he eased them between his legs. Even though Mickey always squeezed his eyes shut here—and he always had, so this, at least, Ian couldn’t take personally despite how his heart screamed for him to do just that—Ian loved watching the contortions of his face, how his mouth would open and his forehead would scrunch up. As far as he could remember, Mickey had never looked anything short of beautiful when he was purely enjoying something, when his head was finally clear.

          “Fuck,” Mickey breathed, his voice for once devoid of irritation or impatience. He sounded clear, he sounded stunning. “Fuck, fuck.”

          As much as Ian wanted to get to the actual fucking, he could tell that Mickey felt _good_ , right here in this moment. He never wanted Mickey to feel anything less; he was afraid that moving, that pulling out and replacing his fingers with his dick, that doing _anything_ but continuing the slow, easy rhythm of his fingers pumping in and out, in and out—he was afraid that any movement would break the spell making Mickey so relaxed and sweet. Suddenly Mickey was a wild dog and Ian didn’t know how to stop it, how to turn him back into the loose, easy boy he used to be. Magic kisses didn’t break these kinds of spells—it made them.

          Mickey was moaning soon, and Ian pumped his fingers in again, rougher, then dragged them slow along his sweet spot, then fucked him rough again. His mouth had fallen open, wet from his tongue and red from his teeth, and his back was starting to arch happily. Ian chanced stopping what he was doing, and he wasn’t sure if he was more gratified that Mickey wasn’t bolting or that he reached clumsily for him when Ian settled his hips down instead, bracing his hands hard on either side of Mickey’s head.

          Their faces were close; Ian fucked his hips down automatically, just dragging against him, between his cheeks, but when he did it Mickey made the throatiest little moan and slung his arms loosely around Ian’s neck.

          “Gonna fuck me or what, Gallagher?”

          Ian’s heart plummeted. Without saying anything, though, he nodded and glanced down, away from Mickey’s face. Mickey’s finger drew lazy shapes against the knob of his spine for a second before he stopped abruptly, digging his nails in instead as though he had just realized what he was doing.

          Fucking Mickey was the easy part. Once he was inside him, the rest always fell away, to a degree. Whatever bullshit heartache or jealousy or distance they had between them, the fucking was never the problem. The fucking was where Ian poured his frustration and his anger and his delusions, like a sick kind of therapy. Once he got Mickey moaning he would know that they were on the same blissfully clearheaded page.

          And Mickey _was_ making those noises, low and guttural as Ian pounded away between his legs, his hips slapping down on Mickey’s with loud, obvious clamor. Mickey’s fingers scraped lines up his back, or grabbed his ass hard enough to bruise, and Ian took it as Mickey keeping him close, as beautiful throbbing reminders that he had been here, with Mickey, alive and working and breathing together.

          This time, though, the therapy was more like a shock session, and when it was over—when Mickey rolled away from him and gathered his clothes and left without a word—Ian’s skin was tingling and his heart was pounding but he was still just as lost, just as confused. The world was just as wrong, tilted off-kilter on its axis.

 

*

 

          Ian wasn’t sure which was worse; being just a warm mouth, or not being anything at all.

*

 

          Mickey found him facedown in the snow. Ian wasn’t conscious, but that’s what he heard later, an afterthought from Svetlana’s mouth during one of her and Mandy’s many, many screaming matches over whether or not Ian could stay with them.

          It took days for the news to filter back to him. Mickey found him, then Svetlana kicked him out, then Mickey came to bring him back, and he was halfway through a fitful nap on their living room couch when he heard the argument. The worst part was that Ian knew he had no right to be here, but a sick, selfish part of his heart was magnetized to that same wretched part of Mickey’s, and he couldn’t find it in himself to stay away.

          Mickey was different, again. He came home halfway through Mandy and Svetlana’s fight and joined Ian on the couch with beers. Ian sat up and crossed his legs, looking away from everything, but when he felt Mickey’s knuckles brushing light and sweet on his arm, he leaned his head on his shoulder without looking over. He was afraid his movement, his push for affection, would ruin what Mickey was already giving him, but the gentle pressure of his knuckles didn’t stop.

          “She doesn’t want me here,” Ian sighed. “I’m not sure I…”

          Mickey didn’t even let him get that far.

          “Hey,” he said, jostling him gently. Ian didn’t look up, but after a second Mickey wrapped his arm tightly around Ian’s shoulders, and squeezed. “You do. Okay? You do.”

          Ian shook his head tiredly. He didn’t know where he belonged anymore.

          After a moment, when he couldn’t stand the silence anymore, he pressed his nose closer to Mickey’s neck. He said, “Tell me a story.”

          Mickey laughed. It was obviously affected, and somewhere in the back of his head, behind the wall of glass he was operating from nowadays—nothing felt quite real except when he was dancing and fucking and sweating, sweating, alive and his heart beating—Ian thought how strange it was to have Mickey worry after him.

          “You want a bedtime story?” Mickey scoffed. Ian wanted, but was afraid to accept, the affection behind it. “Christ. Okay, Little Mermaid, I’ll tell you stories about up on land.”

          He snorted, probably amused by his own perceived wit, at the ridiculous reference, so strange for him to know. Ian snuffed a small laugh into Mickey’s skin, pressing his mouth briefly against where his collarbone was exposed. It was all he could give. The air conditioner was broken again, and the whole system was fucked up, so the heater was spewing out air too hot even for the wintertime and the whole house had been several degrees too warm for days now. Mickey was sweating lightly, invisible except for when Ian pressed his mouth right up against it, tasted him. Mickey was sweating, alive—it was almost enough to make Ian feel like he was real, too.

          Mickey squeezed him tighter. He thought he brushed a kiss to his hair.

          Ian closed his eyes, and Mickey began to speak.

          “Once upon a time, there was a stupid fucking prince with stupid fucking red hair. And every night, he would sneak out to meet a boy out by the river…”

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, i'm at [freyias on tumblr](http://freyias.tumblr.com/post/149659071955)!
> 
> thank you so much for everything. it's been a wonderful journey with you all.
> 
> xoxox


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